


Commoner Activities

by ironiccowboykink



Category: TAZ graduation - Fandom, TAZ: Graduation, The Adventure Zone (Podcast), the adventure zone
Genre: (imagined), ?????, Anal Fingering, Biting, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Voyeurism, fang kink, fangs, fantasies, greg the gargoyle is tired, i sure hope his name is greg, just pure smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21548419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironiccowboykink/pseuds/ironiccowboykink
Summary: Fitzroy whimpers. Begs. Pleads to the open air: “please let me cum again, I’m so close, please, fuck, Gods I’m so close, please, please, please—“
Relationships: Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt/His Hand
Comments: 6
Kudos: 133





	Commoner Activities

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I got so uninterested in this so here u go

Shit. Shit. _Shiiiiit._

Sir Fitzroy Maplebottom walks into his dorm on shaky, fast legs, hands already reaching to palm the tent in his pants. He’s desperate for release before he’s even started, a low keen bubbling in his throat before he even remembers to close to the door. 

“What the hell are you— woah, hey!” Greg the Gargoyle is not very pleased about being turned around, but Fitzroy is damn near about to start humping the wall. He’s been hard since he had the misfortune of catching someone mid-yawn with beautiful light glinting off their fangs. _That_ made him think about those same fangs ghosting up his neck, digging into the space above his collarbone, sucking a hickey so deep that all his fellow students would see it for the coming week. 

And then he thought of getting fucked while that happened. Of his hips thrusting pathetically down against the rhythmic pumping of a thick cock, sweet little sobs escaping his lips whenever it hits his prostate _particularly_ right, and then the fangs sinking into his neck again and—

Oh, how badly he had wanted to touch himself then. 

But class was not yet over and Fitzroy did not want to just _leave_. He was learning important information, however pained, and if he gripped himself through his pants a little too tightly through the entire lesson then that was his business and no one else’s.

A hiss escaped his lips as he gripped his cock just a little bit too hard.

Fitzroy entertained the fantasy anyway. Even though he shouldn’t. Because that gets him off too, the idea of everyone seeing him, hopelessly aroused, desperate for anyone to touch him. He’s a slut like that. 

So much a slut his throat _works—_ he genuinely swallows around nothing just _imagining_ a cock stuffed deep in his throat. So much a slut that he drools around a nonexistent intrusion, hips bucking uselessly in his seat as his hand shifts from _gripping_ to _palming_ to _surreptitiously trying to get himself off_ because the idea of a cock in his mouth has him running too hot. Are his teachers available? Do any of them even have dicks? Does it matter? He’ll take anything at this point. Fingers. A cunt. Something to prove his worth, that his mouth can do much more than just talk—

No. No! The half-elf shakes his head to clear the delusion, but the arousal lingers. And the drool.

For the rest of class. 

And the conversation some students keep him after for.

Thinking back on it, it was amazing he stayed aroused that long. (Secretly hoping he would get caught and fucked up against a wall in that classroom full of people certainly helped.)

As if to remind him where he is, his shaft jumps under the tips of his fingers. He thinks firmly, I am Sir Fitzroy Applegate. _I am_ above _these commoners and their godforsaken_ commoner activities!

_...Especially ones like this._

This activity involves him locked in his room,— _their_ room, for the Gods’ sake, still the most regrettable sentence he’s ever had the misfortune to utter— with the gargoyle turned to the side, so it can only _hear_ him defiling himself like this. 

Fitzroy has never had to stoop so low. _Ever. Obviously._ Which is why he _doesn’t_ know exactly how to touch himself, that if he scrapes his nails up his shaft it makes his back shudder in the most pleasant of ways, and that if he spits on his fingers and applies pressure to the head of his shaft he’ll get just enough precum to ease the friction. He doesn’t know any of that, and he definitely doesn’t flick his wrist right as his hand pumps to the top. And he absolutely _doesn’t_ bite his hand to muffle the moan.

Fitzroy near splits his lips as he fights back a shrill groan, a rush of heat almost making him spill over his hand. He sucks in deep breaths, fighting back the euphoria, mind rife with images of pretty hands touching his dick and devilish, fanged mouths kissing him _hard_ before dragging him by his hair— the way he likes it— straight to his knees, where he’d mouth greedily at someone’s crotch, and they’d would be milking him for all he’s worth, and fuck, _shit—_

God, he’s so needy. So desperate. “FFff _fuck,”_ he slurs past swollen lips, wishing someone could be bucking up into his insides, intent on fucking him like he’s just a toy, and isn’t that a thought that makes his blood run hot— of him, bent over one of the tables at the school, hands in his hair and hands at his back, gripping and turning and _fucking._

“So good, fuck, Gods, please,” Fitzroy babbles to the open air, gasping and arching his back as he fucks into his hand, wet with slick and spit. Teeth, he thinks, imagines the glint of canines just before they litter his chest with hickies, brand him like the whore he is. 

He groans into his hand. Pleasure streaks up his spine like lightning. His race to get off is desperate torture. A race to prolong and to hasten. He wants to touch himself, to reach down between his legs with a hand slippery with spit and press slowly, slowly past the tight ring of flesh— as if he isn’t loose already, isn’t always loose, like he didn’t take one look at Bud and was laden with fantasy of being held down with one giant paw and fucked within an inch of his life— and _thrust_ , finger himself like he’s trying to make sure he can’t walk tomorrow. 

And he does. Because Fitzroy has never denied himself anything. 

He cums _hard._ Fitzroy paints his chest with his cum, fucks himself through it all, throwing his head back as the sensation borders just on the edge of too much. But he likes it like that, _too much,_ so he never stops scissoring, other hand stroking clumsily to the head of his shaft with almost too much pressure. His fingers bump up against his prostate and _fuck_ — he keens, abandons being quiet, wishes his fingers were longer so he could really touch it— that feels so, so good.

Fitzroy whimpers. Begs. Pleads to the open air: “please let me cum again, I’m so close, please, fuck, Gods I’m so close, please, please, please—“ But grips the base of his cock to stop himself anyway. Tugs on his balls to wind down, pulled right up against his body with impending orgasm. Watches his member slowly turn a deep red before touching himself again, just as fast and furious as before, and this time as he fingers the weeping slit he curls his fingers forward with a garbled shout as he cums for the second time in ten minutes. It’s dry. There’s almost nothing but a few pathetic spurts. 

But Fitzroy greedily scoops it up and drinks his own seed anyway. He can pretend it’s someone else’s, but he won’t deny he doesn’t love the way he tastes. 

He’s panting against his bed. _Someone’s_ bed. He doesn’t know. Sleep tugs at his eyelids and he’s almost out before Greg asks, “Are you done yet?”

Fear jolts all of the post orgasm haze out of him, and then something akin to shame makes his dick swell back up again. “Uh—“ He says, reaching to cover himself up but Greg is already sighing and mumbling something about “damned teenagers and their libidos”. 

Fitzroy takes that as an invitation to start round two.


End file.
